


consummation

by flight815kitsune



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Peggy Carter, Drinking, F/F, i just wanted them relaxed and happy and kissing okay, set at the end of season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 19:57:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10394904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flight815kitsune/pseuds/flight815kitsune
Summary: something i was doing for femslash February but didn't finish in time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> tagged for drinking even though i feel the both of them are still capable of consent if that's a tricky thing for you this might not be the fic for you.

Schnapps had been a good start to the evening. Enough that the warmth in her veins had been unavoidable. It was not a fire. It was nothing like a fire.  Fire was far more unpredictable and spontaneous. Fire was wild. Fire  _ consumed _ . This was the orange-red glow of coals after any actual blaze had been extinguished. Heat, yes, but a low simmering one rather than a wildfire. It was not a crackling, untamed thing to be fought or surrendered to. It was hers. 

Alcohol made her sloppy. It always did. It made her long for the contact of another person. 

The last time, it had almost been Howard. Howard with his smooth words and lack of shame. There would be no expectations there, and no judgement. If he had any of the honesty she’d found in Steve’s eyes, she’d have given in with enthusiasm to his playful whispers and smirk. But she had still ached, still mourned with grief a sharp sort of splinter beneath her breast. Howard could not hope to compete with that. 

Had he truly tried, not just the empty gesture that had been expected of him, she may not have been able to shrug him off so easily. After all, women with a lot more to lose had taken their chance. Surely not all of them had gone for the peacock's strut that he wore when interacting with the public and had instead seen some of the brilliant man behind it. 

Some other women gave so freely of themselves, risked so much that she had no idea where they got the mind to do so. Or where exactly the line between bravery and foolishness truly was. They obviously believed him worth the risk, though, and the concept was not so easily dismissed. After all, she had seen the way he had gone into the search for Steve. There was no denying that her grief was echoed there. Maybe someday they could bond over that but now there was a chance that if she looked too deeply into those dark eyes that she would shatter and he would drink and do the same. It wouldn’t do either of them any good, and so she pushed him away.

She tried not to be a maudlin drunk, which was why this bottle had remained unopened until she had someone happy to share it with. 

Someone who was a spot of sunshine in an often-cruel word, who was far enough from the situation that she wouldn’t be dragged into it, that if faced with the idea of being dragged down would dig in her heels and **pull back** .

Alcohol made her sloppy, which was why when Angie leaned in and kissed her she leaned into it but she didn’t kiss back.

The “Sorry-” Angie breathed against her cheek after the too-wet press of lips felt more like profanity than an apology: a small amount of self-flagellation in the face of some imagined sin.

She nurses another sip from the glass before meeting the other woman’s gaze. “What for?”

And something shifts in Angie’s face, then, a challenge accepted. It was odd how quickly seeing that look on someone’s face could break through her hard-earned defenses. She wasn’t the same as Steve and it just wouldn’t do to think of a dead man while that mouth smudged lipstick against her cheek. But the strength to the set of her jaw, those light eyes surrounded by fair eyelashes, that spark of challenge were all familiar. So she had a type. 

 

The breathy “Come to bed.” was as unarguable as the “This is a bad idea”.

And those words were a reminder that the war was over. People would be less likely to turn a blind eye now that the soldiers had come home. 

“I’ve played part in the acting out of far worse ideas, I assure you.” Peggy offers. It was true. This was nothing of the risks that she had taken and would continue to take. She places her glass on the table and leans back into the very plush furniture.

It shouldn’t have surprised her, when Angie’s hands rested on her waist and the sear of those palms matched the demanding heat in her gut. 

 

It was nice to have fingers in her hair that didn’t ignore the bobby pins, that systematically deconstructed the arrangement with all the skill of an expert disarming a bomb. 

“Nervous, English?”

“I’ve  _ killed _ people.” Perhaps the words would have had more impact had they not been accompanied by laughter. 

Dusty rose once more met blood red. They were again not properly aligned, some victim of the alcohol and the enthusiasm. Angie’s Cupid’s bow smudged the corner of Peggy’s lips right where they turned up whenever she smiled. 

She hadn’t done nearly enough smiling, recently. 

  
  


Angie sprawls on the bed and laughs. It’s a calm, easy thing so soaked in relief that ambrosia would be jealous of the sweetness of it. Peggy cannot recall the last time someone had been so relaxed when they had the slightest inkling of what her capabilities were. Underestimated or feared, those were her two most common roles when she had signed herself away to the SSR. Respect had been hard to come by and companionship even rarer. Howard was kind, to have offered her this, to have offered privacy and safety with no risk of judgement. He knew the value of such an offer and still opened his doors. Angie, though, she hadn’t the slightest notion of the value of the care she gave so freely. There was no way to repay her for this- the kindness, the understanding, the simple act of remaining herself when faced with the reality of who Peggy Carter was and never even flinching from it.

Angie looked every part the starlet as her legs stretched across the satin sheets. Another easy laugh and an attempt to hide the smile on her now-flushed face that falls woefully short. Her voice is bright and happy- sunshine, sugar, and spring. Peggy reaches out. Her fingers have none of the confidence of the ones that lace with hers. She’s tugged down and it was a move she’d seen coming a mile away and done absolutely nothing to prevent. She kicks off her heels and kneels on the bed. 

The bottle finds a home on the floor. (Right side up, of course, though where the stopper had gone was anyone’s guess.)

 

Angie’s hand edges up her skirt, fingers running up the inside of her thighs. She spreads them, and the touches climb upwards. 

Her eyes fluttered shut with the first press of fingertips against her. The thin cotton briefs were no match for the knowing caress. 

“Oh.”

It was a slow drawing down of fingertips and a mischievous smirk with painted lips bitten by white teeth. The unmasked desire was the sort that belonged on pinups painted across the noses of planes, not here with only a single witness.

 

Angie’s hand cups her breast. This was undemanding, a contrast to the wire and satin that held her in such a position.

Pleasure as Angie’s thumb brushes across her nipple.

The other woman’s mouth on her throat. 

Getting lipstick off her collar would be as difficult as getting out blood. 

It was a small consolation she had had practice with both. 

Her hips rock upward, bringing her into fuller contact with the thigh between hers. 

Angie pulls back to tug her dress up and over, the unbridled excitement of a child who couldn’t wait for zippers or buttons and didn’t demand the dignity of stepping from puddled fabric. The slip clings awkwardly to both sweat-dampened skin and the dress which covered it, only leaving bare flesh behind after the most ineffectual protest. There is no teasing burlesque show in the way she peels off her stockings, either. 

 

This should be making her more wary but while there is a small voice in her mind saying danger, it is outweighed by a much louder demand for  _ more _ . 

Her own clothing is similarly discarded with no more grace and perhaps that was for the best, that neither of them had even the slightest illusion of perfection in this. 

 

“Didn’t think you were the type.” Angie whispers, the flush on her cheeks unable to even hold a candle to the delicate seashell pink across her chest. Angie’s nipples were nearly the same shade as her lipstick and the thought that this may have been an intentional choice sends another undeniable pang of need through Peggy.

“Why not?” and her voice was far less composed- it creaks oddly as she repositions herself on the bed.

“The way you talk about that soldier.”

And the memory of Steve hurt, still, but Angie was here and waiting and so full of life and she wouldn’t make the same mistake twice of counting on that being a permanent state of being. 

 

It was never said that Peggy Carter was never impulsive. It’s all too easy to close the gap with another kiss. Her own touch is likely far too rough, but the cry panted into her mouth was far from a deterrent.

 

Angie is not as quiet as she should be trying to be. Then again, they had the whole place to themselves and the pleading instructions were all too easy to obey when the reward was the speaker falling to pieces.

Peggy holds her down as easily as she had dozens of criminals before, rocking against the leg between hers in a desperate search for friction. All it takes is Angie playfully grasping a handful of buttock, surging up to meet her with another kiss, giddy and challenging and oh-so-perfect to send her over the edge. She rides it out slowly, eking out every last breath of pleasure until she’s quaking from the beginning oversensitivity. 

Angie just stares, lips parted as though she was witnessing a miracle and pulls Peggy down for another kiss, this one long and soft and sweet.

It was easy to remain there- entangled and sated, all loose limbs and absentminded touches.

  
  
  


“I don’t mean to pry…”

Angie snorts but gives a small “go on” gesture.

“I didn’t think you the type either.”

She shakes her head, smile landing firmly in the “smirk” category. “Here I thought you were a spy or something, and you didn’t know?”

“Know what?”

“There’s a  _ real _ easy way of obeying a rule that says no men above the first floor, English.” And her smile was contagious. 


End file.
